


Man In All His Weakness

by rispacooper



Category: The Secret Adventures of Jules Verne
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-15
Updated: 2011-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jules is still worried about his "purity". Phileas decides to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man In All His Weakness

"So what are you saying, Verne?"

It was an effort to keep his voice low. He was not nearly as drunk as seemed, as he would have liked to have been, but he had had enough tonight to make acting normally a bit of an effort. At this moment his mouth watered for…it watered for whiskey and luckily, he was a man well prepared. His hand was reaching for the flask in his coat pocket before he had even finished the thought, letting the burn on his lips distract him.

It was a fleeting distraction at best, as many other drinks should have taught him, but it soothed raw nerves, filled the hole in his stomach before he raised his eyes and tried not to focus.

Tried not to, but of course, he did, immediately and completely as Jules’ presence here demanded. It took a sober man to resist the silent command, and Phileas had not been sober in some time. Very few of those that Jules Verne called friend stayed sober for long; the realization was not a happy one, though Phileas doubted that the pattern had even been noticed by anyone but him. But then, he wasn't even entirely sure that the thought wasn't just another whiskey-spawned delusion.

"Fogg!" Jules' voice came to him muffled, though the agonized embarrassment and reproach in the single word managed to be quite clear. Jules had hid his face in his hands the moment the startling words had left his mouth, and it did not seem as though he had any intention of raising it. It was a reprieve that made Phileas wonder vaguely at the existence of some benevolent entity above, because he did not think he could have borne seeing Jules' face as at that moment, sober or not.

With a rather sickening haste, his mind traveled back over the events of the night only to wind up right back here, in this moment with Jules; the decision to meet Jules in the cafe, the party of revelers drinking away their worries about the exams of that morning, the girl in the striped dress who had seemed to like their company, more drinks, and the wine that had filled Jules' cup, that Phileas had gladly paid for, and Jules' sudden sickness and stumbling trip back to the Aurora. And then Jules falling onto the padded bench, dropping his head into his hands and moaning.

"I am always going to be so _pure_." So softly he spat the word, so unexpected that Phileas had kept his coat on, sitting down carefully on a chair not far away, shaming his rather costly education into growing obviously still as Jules had continued. "No one will ever touch me." And then briefly he had lifted his face from his hands, exposing one round, shocked eye before he had lowered his head again and groaned. "I..." he had begun and then just stopped, shaking his head.

"Verne?" Phileas tried again, swallowing more whiskey to keep his mouth wet. Jules jerked his head up before he could say anything else, his face a brilliant red that had little to do with wine. Too much, Phileas could hear his brain noting, too much wine and Jules could not stop his mouth. A thousand dreams and visions had been confessed in the cafe over each cup as it had been refilled, but those were nothing to this.

"Don't say a word, Fogg!" Jules ordered and then blinked, putting a hand to his head and blinking again. His lips were darker even than the blushing skin of his face, stained with a cheap vintage from Bordeaux, and no doubt his tongue was as well, perhaps even his teeth, and Phileas found his eyes resting there when they ought to have moved away.

 _Pure_. The unfamiliar word rolled around in his mind, on his tongue, barely held back from being spoken aloud and he tried to drown it in liquor, succeeding only in giving the word a sharp tang, a burn through his blood.

"Surely..." His throat was too tight to say anymore, and he waved the hand with the flask in it vaguely, hoping the casual gesture would speak for him. A few drops splashed to the floor, and he watched Jules' large eyes fall to them and stay down, his eyelashes falling over the shadows curving under each eye. At his sides, Jules' hands twitched and then resettled, the only other sign of the unease he was failing to hide.

"You are..." He doubted Jules would notice his pause, or the sudden shift in his tone, and was again grateful to the benign spirit that protected fools from their own foolishness. "You are a good fellow, Verne," he announced loudly in the most blustering voice he could manage, and watched Jules cringe, the sight sending a sharp ache shooting behind his eyes.

"I don't think that matters, Fogg." Jules muttered to himself, tossing his head and glancing away. "Not when..." Something like a hiccough stopped him, and then Jules was silent, so tense that he ought to have been shaking. Maybe he was shaking; he had tucked his hands underneath his legs and bowed his shoulders about his body, as though the last thing he wanted was for Phileas to see him at all.

Phileas averted his gaze, making his eyes water by staring directly into a lamp. "Don't be ridiculous, Verne," he argued and took a deep breath, fighting the weight on his chest. "That's...that's part of the charm about you." Jules snorted before he could finish, and even in the midst of his despair, he found the sign of Jules' stubbornness irritating. His voice was less smooth than it ought to have been when he continued. "You've certainly charmed Rebecca at times."

"Have I, Fogg?" Jules questioned softly, not at all convinced and Phileas was sharply aware of the weakness of his reply, though it was something easy to ignore for now. There was a simple solution to Jules' problem, if one had the money and the willingness to ignore what seemed undesirable, and Phileas could feel his face hardening, his spirit revolting at the idea of Jules seeking out such an option.

He had not, by this time, done it on his own. That was clear, and yet still Phileas felt his breath coming faster as the images presented themselves, as the knowledge of where precisely Jules lived, and the easy availability of flesh to anyone with an eye for a tight bodice. There was no doubt that Jules had been tempted, and still he hadn't, and it was only that which kept Phileas in his chair, staring blindly into shimmering, pale gaslight.

Exactly why Jules had not was not something that ought to spark a man's interest, and so Phileas held his tongue, giving himself answers that were wrong even if they were true. That Jules was often shy when it came to the fairer sex, that was the real reason. He grasped that idea firmly and then his head was shaking for that was not the reason at all.

With the light so far away, he should not have been able to see the rapid beat at the curve of Jules' neck, but what the darkness hid his mind painted with full colour, from memories, from dreams, and he could not be sure which one this was. Only by touch would he know if it was real, and his fingers drew back on their own though Jules was still several yards from him and would stay there long after Phileas had gone up for the night.

Pure was the word Jules had chosen, and suddenly it was all too fitting. There was a golden idol before him, far more than beautiful, and if it had been merely some ancient relic, Phileas would not have hesitated before lifting it from its resting place and carrying it back to the Magna, just to hear of the rage on Sir Jonathan's face.

"Jules." The familiarity brought Jules' head up, something to be grateful for, at first. Out of a vague, strange feeling of respect for the spirit watching out for him tonight, Phileas kept his head up as well as he spoke, watching the lights come and go in the surprising depths of Jules' brown eyes. "You mustn't think there is something wrong with you." For a moment Jules' mouth opened as though he would speak, but he said nothing and left his lips parted to breathe through his mouth. Each little hitch and rush of air hit Phileas' ears, though he was too far away for the sound to have been anything other than his imagination.

Whatever Jules thought he chose not to share, and that was even more unsettling, leaving Phileas frowning, coughing once though keeping his gaze steady.

"You are good." His cheeks would have been stinging if the wine had not left them numb. His stumbling was so shaming he wondered if he were not still eleven years old, standing before his father. "You are..."

"Pure," Jules said flatly, turning away from him and shrugging his shoulders. His mouth twisted unpleasantly, visible even in profile, and Phileas could easily picture the delicate lines of a frown on the other man's face. There were times when Jules had nothing but frowns, angry with Phileas for not living up to the high ideals Jules held for him. No small sighs of annoyance and mutterings under his breath as Rebecca or Passpartout, but instead the indescribable irritation of having a young, bright eyed conscience in a dirty coat following him around and challenging his every move.

"Don't be an idiot." His voice was far too harsh when he spoke, the scrape of rusted nails where he had meant the stroke of a feather. Jules turned to look at him, his mouth wide with shock that even Phileas could be so heartless, so _unfeeling_ , and Phileas could feel his mouth turning up, a short laugh bursting from him that would only confuse Jules more. Unfeeling. His sides hurt with what he held in, and he raised the flask to his lips with an unsteady hand.

Only a few drops remained and then it was empty. Phileas twisted the lid back on with an annoyed frown for his valet, who must not have filled it to the top. The damn thing was useless when he needed it the most and so he tossed it on his discarded coat, entertaining distant thoughts of firing his valet. But even the unimaginable pain in Passpartout's eyes were he ever to be so cruel was not enough to distract him. He took a breath and was strangely conscious of doing so, of the eyes on him as he released it and the thousand thoughts that would be playing out behind those eyes that he could never hope to understand.

"Never believe that there are not those who want to have you, Verne," he assured Jules in what he had not meant to be a whisper.

There were port and brandy somewhere on the ship, as well as Rebecca's damned sherry. All he had to do was find them. His gaze swung to the cut-glass decanter in the center of the table, then followed the sparks of light bouncing off the faceted surface back to Jules.

"But not enough, Fogg," Jules answered him finally, firming his mouth and nodding softly to himself. Then his eyelids seemed to grow heavy, and Phileas let out a small, even amused sigh.

"You are tired, Jules," he told them both without need, and stood up so that Jules with his good manners might do the same. The boy was unfailingly polite to his elders, unless of course they had violated one of his principles, Phileas reminded himself, and it was careless of him to allow Jules to sit up when as a guest he ought to have been comfortable. "Rebecca is not here, you are welcome to sleep in her room tonight."

"Thank you, Fogg." Jules rose to his feet and inclined his head, something in his attitude seeming to agree with him and yet mock him at the same time, so like his cousin that Phileas raised his head.

"Do you know where to find her room, Verne?" His voice would have carried through the whole airship but Jules barely flinched as he might have just that afternoon, without the lush warmth of wine in his veins. Instead his brows drew together in a frown, the one Phileas hated to see, the one that meant he had again fallen below Jules' expectations.

"Do you, Fogg?" Jules asked him seriously, then dropped his head just as the colour again bloomed in his cheeks. He sighed a moment later and crossed to the stairs without turning to look back at Phileas. His foot fell heavily on the first iron step before he spoke again. "Goodnight, Fogg."

He left Phileas standing there as though he had not expected Phileas to answer him, a blessing really, because Phileas found he could not speak. Or would not, and he cursed the whiskey in his blood for not being strong enough.

"Do you, Fogg?" Jules' words came to his mind again, without the heat of accusation this time. A different inflection melted it, twisted into something utterly changed from what it had been, to something softer and alone. He could taste the hints on his tongue, smell them as he had often smelt danger in the air, but no hairs rose on his neck, and though his heart raced his skin was warm. Deliriously so, flushed and prickling with heat that was hotter even than the whiskey burning its way through his insides. Perhaps the whiskey was strong after all to have placed such a fever in his mind. It was a sick lie what his mind had conjured, and Phileas could feel himself glaring, staring into space at the deity that was surely mocking him now.

If it wanted to delight in man in all his weakness, then Phileas would have plenty to show it. He found himself standing before the table and pulling the stopper from the glass decanter. Without a cup he drank from the top, vaguely irritated when it splashed on his cravat. But the brandy was sweet, and he stopped after the third swallow, setting it down and turning to the stairs.

Another man's head would have been spinning, his feet floating above each iron-wrought step. Instead each push of his soles against the ground jarred him, urged him to slow down or turn back. Breezes crept through closed windows to caress his face, to trickle a chill across his brow, and if he had been a man to feel fear, he might have shortened his stride, or turned and pretended that he had sought his own room all along.

He did not knock before he turned the handle, but he traced his tongue along his teeth and then closed his mouth as Jules turned and stared at him with what was only his usual curiosity. Nothing more held the younger man to the spot, the dirty coat somewhere else, but his waistcoat still fastened and his shoes still on. His hair was too long, and tangled curls seemed displaced, pushed away to expose the confused face staring back at him.

"Fogg?" Of course Jules spoke first, investing his name with all the innocent faith that Jules had always held for him.

His mouth was dry, and Phileas licked his lips, alarmed to realize he could not taste the brandy on his tongue, but his body reacted on its own, moving forward when hesitation could kill him.

"Close your eyes, Verne." It was hard to speak around the dryness in his throat, and it was his eyes that closed, so he did not see if Jules obeyed him. But he bent his head, and the blackness in his mind swirled with lights as his lips pressed against warm skin. Something fluttered against his mouth, and Phileas could feel his startled breath fly back against his face, his tongue tracing along the pounding vein in Jules' neck before he could attempt to stop it.

One of them gasped, Jules, he thought but could not be sure, not with his eyes closed and his body only seeming to be lips and a tongue, hot on the innocent neck before him. But it must have been, because he spoke again, startled and quiet.

"Fogg?" he questioned, his voice empty of the anger Phileas had expected, and with his body somewhere far away, Phileas could not feel shame enough to truly answer him.

"Close your eyes," he ordered again, hushed words murmured into quivering skin, and then there was his body again, an outlined reflection of the warmth next to him. His hands were pressed to the thin cloth of Jules' shirt at his shoulders and he slid them up to his neck, and then curved his fingers up into the mess of wavy brown. It slipped around his fingers like water, cool and giving, and when it parted there was the weight of Jules' skull cradled against his palms.

With a gentleness a drunkard should not have possessed he eased Jules' head up, and then moved his lips, pressing small, hesitant kisses across his jaw before stopping just above the waiting mouth. He wondered if Jules had closed his eyes, but could not open his own to look. There was breath brushing over his face, coming faster and faster as he stood there, useless and willing to pretend that the blade was not already buried in his middle. He would hand Jules a knife when this was over, and stand as still as Jules did now.

And then Jules opened his mouth. He couldn't be certain how he knew, but he could feel it, hear the indrawn breath as though Jules would speak, and his ears were as cowardly as his eyes. Phileas brought his mouth down, not surprised at the softness of Jules' lips, or at the silken feel of their fullness as they parted for him. But he was bereft at the instant response, lost for a moment at the innocent invitation and the delicate touch of a tongue to his lips, as though reminding him of his intent.

Jules remained still in his hands, and yet his tongue swept inside his mouth, behind his teeth, and there was the taste of wine and coffee and the scent of someone's tobacco on his breath, sweet and overwhelming, things that a man craved until his skin burst with need.

A response to how many other kisses, the question tightened the fingers in Jules' hair, drawing him nearer without daring to hurt, pressing hard lips to his soft mouth and stealing the breath from him.

For the first time hands touched him, a sudden pressure at his sides, thumbs stroking to his ribs, and through his waistcoat and shirt it burned.

"No." If the word actually left him he could not be sure, but he took his hands from Jules' hair and moved them down the length of his throat to the loose shirt collar, finding a button and freeing it easily. It was wrong, and of the crimes witnessed in this room tonight, that was one he would not allow.

Cold stung his lips as Jules moved his head away, but Phileas dropped his head to press them to the skin his hands were exposing, his ears filled with the sudden explosion of breath as Jules leaned into his mouth, tightened the hands in Phileas' waistcoat. They clenched and unclenched around fistfuls of silk as Phileas let his tongue explore the slight curve of Jules' collarbone, the salt sweetness of his skin, as though the very wine he had drunk had changed the taste of him.

 _Changed_ hinted that Phileas had tasted him before, and he struggled to keep his mouth gentle, his face twisting into a grimace that he was grateful Jules could not see. The back of his hands pushed the thin muslin from Jules’ skin as he slipped his hands underneath the cloth, hissing slightly at the bare skin he was being allowed to touch. Near his ear, Jules sighed harshly and then hiccoughed on indrawn air, and Phileas made his hands go still, curled over the soft muscles of the boy's chest.

His skin... Phileas felt his own breath being stolen from him, coming too fast and too hard yet still not easing the burn in his cheeks or clearing his mind.

The leather vest Jules wore was getting in the way. The thought came with just enough clarity to allow him to move, taking his hands away from Jules to undo the buttons of the vest. His fingers did not shake, or did not anymore than the body so close to him did, shivering with what was likely fear. Phileas nearly smiled, at the loyalty and trust Jules displayed for him now, in this at least Phileas would not fall below his expectations. In this at least Phileas found his education worthwhile.

Softly now, he pressed closed-mouth, gentler kisses to the arched line of Jules' throat, and then above his heart, startled at the force of the pounding against his lips.

The vest fell to the floor with the buttery sound of old leather, barely registering in Phileas' mind at all, other than the sudden, momentary stiffness of Jules' body as he seemed to realized it had been removed. His head jerked, as though he would look down to see where it had gone, and then he was jerking his head back up, pulling toward Phileas and the hands sliding his shirt from his pants.

His palms itched, but Phileas held them away from Jules' waist once the shirt was free, sliding them back up to splay out over the smooth chest still hidden from him. A small sound, like humming, came from Jules' throat, but he did not speak, and when his trembling eased slightly, Phileas moved his hands to Jules' back, curious about even the shape of his shoulder blades.

All of his body was soft it seemed, and he could not stop his palms from stroking circles around Jules' hips, around and around until his skin should have been raw or numb. Jules was no longer trembling, but small shudders took him, whispers without the shape of words in Phileas' ears. Rewarding, Phileas pressed a kiss to his mouth and then opened his eyes, as surprised as any innocent when Jules captured his mouth hungrily and raised a hand to hold them together, pressing hard to the back of Phileas' head.

Desire shot through his middle so hard Phileas almost fell forward, his body tightened with need. The hands at Jules' sides were grasping on their own, pulling to him what he had no right to touch. He pulled back, easing the kiss and trying to breathe, staring at the wrinkled brow above the reddened lips. With the lack of artifice that made him beautiful, Jules continued to frown as he snuck out his tongue to wet the same darkened lips, not bothering to hide his confusion or his displeasure even as he presented such an enticing image.

Fury tightened his stomach, and Phileas shifted his position to place his leg behind Jules' and then swept it forward. Jules' startled cry broke off abruptly as his back hit the soft mattress of Rebecca's bed, and then any further noises were silenced by the pressure of Phileas' mouth, hard on his, pressing him to the pillows as Phileas settled his body over him.

There was only a moment of stunned quiet as Phileas overwhelmed him, and then Jules was twisting beneath him, or trying to, his brilliant mind no doubt noting a thousand impressions at once. But that was nothing to what Phileas had already noticed, and he immediately gentled his kiss, sliding a hand between their bodies to press the muslin against the budded skin of Jules' nipples, not surprised to taste Jules' shocked little moan, or at how it echoed down his spine, wanting him to shove the warm body back into the mattress, to bury himself in Jules just once, and stain the sheets of his cousin's bed with it.

Stain the sheets… He would need to steal them, wash them himself if it took that, hide them away with the rest of filth buried in his room. No other hands would touch them.

Phileas tore his mouth away, panting next to Jules' ear, watching the hair stir with each breath, and the small unstoppable shivers raise the skin at the boy's neck. Jules' breath did not come easy either, and Phileas stroked his hands out across the exquisitely soft flesh of his chest one last time, pushing aside cloth as he did, curious if the skin would be paler than the rest of him or as oddly golden as his face and hands. His hands touched upon the trembling muscles of Jules' stomach, and they clenched underneath his fingertips, making him look up into the quiet, solemn face.

Trust and friendship would keep Jules still where other men would run in fear.

The liquor had made his face numb, and for a moment he could not shape his lips to speak, closing his eyes again to the sight of Jules rumpled and bruised in his cousin's bed, fighting the need to look back.

"It will not hurt," he promised quietly, speaking as one should speak to all innocents, when the pain of lies had always been so much worse than the wounds of the body. The skin of his hands tingled sharply as though blood raced through him for the first time in hours, but he ignored it, needing his movements to be graceful as he undid the buttons on the front of Jules' pants.

For this form of combat there was no art, no skill was necessary, but even with no effort it would not take long, not unless he wanted it to, just to see the effort and agony tauten Jules' soft skin. But he did not wish Jules to beg.

Jules inhaled deeply as he thought it, and Phileas pushed aside the rough material, stopping as Jules abruptly let out the breath he had been holding. Phileas' whole being was so tight that he almost could not move, but he shifted his arms, raising his head and glancing up at Jules' flushed face. His eyes were still closed, his head back and his lips parted in expectation of whatever Phileas pleased to do to him. It was for that reason that Phileas closed his eyes and took him into his mouth, his body shuddering at the choked cry from above.

His hips came up almost immediately, and Phileas shoved him back down with the heels of his hands, angling his head to take in as much as he could in the position he had chosen. One slip of his tongue and Jules was shaking, breathing hoarsely in sounds that were almost like words, but Phileas did not look as he tightened his lips and allowed the salt-sweet taste to coat his mouth.

He moved his head again a moment later, firming his tongue and allowing the small movements from Jules this time, swallowing as his mouth was filled, his body twitching at the sharp ache it produced below his stomach. That he pushed aside, sliding the pressure of his tongue along the wet surface in his mouth, feeling it harden in response and shoving his own body softly to the mattress to help ease his agony. He was filled, his senses nothing but that smell and taste of Jules and the remaining throb of his body.

Above him, Jules moaned, and Phileas echoed the sound in his throat, his eyes watering at the weight on his tongue, the helpless gasps and restless shifts that left none of his senses free of Jules. He wanted more, and it was greedy, but he could not stop his mouth, arching up to strain to take in more of him, sucking hard and so suddenly that Jules rose up from underneath his hands.

"Fogg!" he called his name with such an innocent surprise, his hands warm and trusting on the back of Phileas' skull when they ought to have been tight claws. Phileas curled his tongue and drew back his head, lowering it again a moment later. Jules' whole body pounded, throbbing against his cheeks and Jules said it again, his voice rising as Phileas worked his throat and swallowed. Just that single word, as if Phileas had managed to at last slow Jules' mind to just one thought, and he could feel his cock harden and his belly twist to imagine the one thought being him.

It was a lie, but it did not stop his tongue, firm and wet as he finished Jules off.

When there was nothing left for him, he opened his mouth and moved his head away, rolling his tongue around between his teeth. Shadows of flavour stayed with him, enough for him to pull up a hand to wipe at his mouth, though he doubted that there was any mess to clean.

His face burned, and Phileas thought of all his lies this evening. He was not drunk at all, and to his shame Jules most likely was. His only credit was that it was his body that was left hard and empty, and it would be his agony tonight and tomorrow, now that this was between them.

Phileas cleared his throat and he looked up and saw brown eyes quite steady on him. They had not just been opened, the gaze was too bright for that, and something unsettling twisted in his stomach to think that Jules had watched him. He barely controlled the strong shiver that hit him, sitting up and straightening his cravat with a well-practiced but careless looking gesture.

Jules' face was too red for him to make any attempt to hide, but of course Jules didn't, any more than he felt the need to cover up his body for the time being. Unlike Phileas he did not seem to have any problem looking straight into his eyes. Odd, that he should lay easily on the bed now and Phileas was left turning his eyes from the naked body, but that was only one thought and was quickly shoved to join the other thoughts he had no time for.

"Why, Fogg?" Jules asked bluntly, with the lack of tact that would have made Rebecca speak of striking him. He had just all but stripped Jules of his virginity for no other reason than his own selfishness, had sucked his bloody cock here on his cousin's bed, and yet Jules remained unchanged, blundering and challenging and refusing to forget.

His mouth burned with the fading flavours of Jules, and Phileas wondered that he had ever thought Jules would have been changed by the act. His lips had been hard as he had kissed Phileas back and demanded more, and he would feel no shame for that unless someone made him feel it.

"Why?" He got to his feet and kept his posture straight, demanding with his expression that Jules keep his eyes on his face. "Because that is what I do, Verne." That made the boy flinch, but Phileas had prepared more. It was not Jules that would feel shame for this. "I am a pervert, so debauched and dissipated I cannot tell the difference. Because..."

"Because you are a friend?" Jules' own answer brought Jules' knees up to his chest and made his young voice sound aged. "But it wasn't pity." His lips firmed, and Phileas remembered them on his own, that brief, startling moment. But Jules was not done reasoning, trying to dissect exactly what happened here and determine some purpose in his actions. "I have never seen you act out of pity, Fogg, except for..."

He did not finish, and turned his eyes away.

"Did you enjoy it?" Phileas looked down, pulling a piece of dust from his sleeve and noticing a wrinkle that Passpartout must have missed. It had not occurred in his brief struggle with Jules on the bed. That had taken no effort at all.

Panting silently, Phileas looked back to Jules, watching the colour that stole across the other man's face, the embarrassed duck of his head before he could stop it.

"You know I did." Jules could not seem to find his breath either, his chest filling and emptying quickly, until the air seemed to catch in his throat and he flicked one brief, wide-eyed look up into Phileas' face.

"You didn't have to. I wasn't..."

"I know." He did indeed. Jules would never have asked Phileas for this. And that made it all the more amusing. Or it would, when several more decanters were empty downstairs. "Go to sleep, Jules." The boy's eyes were already closing, like a tired but stubborn child who needed to hear the end of a story.

An unsettling thought really, and Phileas thought that gods were more like Puck than most people admitted. Most would not be pleased to realize they were entertainment for bored creators; Phileas had recognized his proper role as a pawn long ago. He smiled as the wine and physical exhaustion urged Jules' head to the pillow, and the slow blinks became slower, until his eyes remained closed.

The image of a child remained in Phileas' mind remained even as the flushed, exposed skin of Jules' body showed him for what he was now, a man sleeping in a bed where he had been loved.  
"Amusing, aren't we?" Phileas directed his question at the air though he kept his gaze on the idol before him just a moment longer. Jules might wake cold, so Phileas bent to slide a blanket over him, reminding himself to leave a note for Passpartout to wake Jules in the morning in time for his classes.

Then he turned and headed out and back downstairs without another look at Jules. He would leave another note that he was not to be disturbed until well after noon.


End file.
